


Goodsister

by ariel2me



Series: House Martell [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7609312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mellario of Norvos and Oberyn Martell, and a betrayal set in stone years before she married his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodsister

He glows. Doran glows, shining brighter in black than he did as the prince in red, gold and orange who first caught Mellario’s eyes.

“You are good for him. I have never seen him as joyful as he has been since he married you,” Oberyn leans and whispers in her ear, while Doran is making funny faces to entertain their daughter.

Mellario’s soft reply is drowned out by the sound of Arianne’s laughter.

*

He kisses her hand, tells her what a sight to gladden a lonely heart she is, and calls her _‘my sweet sister.’_ She is touched, though she knows it is the flesh-and-blood sister now residing in Dragonstone he is truly missing.

He calls her _‘queen of my brother’s heart’_ and Doran blushes, stammers a few incoherent words, but pointedly does not deny the sentiment. Mellario wonders if it is time, time to sound her husband out on that matter, the great matter.

Not yet, she thinks, caressing her belly. This child may prove to be another girl, a sister for Arianne.

 _They send their sons away, those cruel Westerosis, plucking the little babes from their mother’s breast and forcing them to grow up among strangers_ , her father had warned Mellario. An exaggeration, certainly. Doran had been nine when he was sent to Salt Shore, hardly a babe still clinging to his mother’s breast.

Though nine is still too young.  Much too young. She will convince him. If they have a son, she will convince Doran not to send their son away at all. She harbors no doubt about her ability to convince him of this.

*

A look passes between Doran and Oberyn, dark and troubling.

“What is it? Is he … is there something wrong with him?”

 _I will love you_ , she vows fiercely. _I will love you even if you are born without sight and sound. I will love you no matter what._

“No, my love. He is perfect,” Doran replies, gently kissing her brow, while Oberyn studiously averts her gaze.

*

Arianne tells her little brother the story of the great love between Prince Maron and his Targaryen bride, on the day Mellario’s world collapses. “Princess Daenerys is queen of Prince Maron’s heart, like Mother is queen of Father’s heart,” Arianne says to the babe in the cradle, glancing at her mother, coaxing a smile from Mellario. Mellario kisses her daughter’s cheek, laughs heartily and says, “Quent is too young still to understand your tales of great romance.”

Prince Lewyn’s is the mouth who speaks the evil words; Doran’s Kingsguard uncle returning home for a visit after a long absence, slapping his great-nephew’s bottom, pronouncing him a sturdy lad and wondering when the boy will have to be sent to Yronwood.

Mellario is untroubled, at first, taking the words as mere jest. “I doubt the Yronwoods would wish to care for a babe scarcely eight weeks old,” she replies with a smile, still in the spirit of jest.

Lewyn Martell frowns. “You never know with the Yronwoods. Their pride … well, let’s just say I will not be surprised if they demand that Quentyn be sent to them earlier than the usual age for fostering.”

It is Mellario’s turn to frown, the smile completely wiped off her face. “Demand? Why should they be in a position to demand that at all? Doran has never promised to foster Quent with them, or with anyone.”   

“But surely you know. Surely your husband has told you.”

She is too stunned to say a word.

Uncle Lewyn looks at her with pity. Out comes the whole story, of Oberyn bedding Edgar Yronwood’s paramour, of the duel and everything that came after, of the blood debt and the coins the Yronwoods demanded from the Martells as payment.

 _My sweet sister._ Recalling the sound of Oberyn’s voice makes her want to retch. That serpent. That poisonous serpent.

And what about her husband? That liar, that dissembler. A lie by omission is still a lie.

And what about her? Oh, she cursed her own naivety and stupidity most of all. How could she not have suspected?

*  

The once-but-no-longer king of her heart does not flinch or try to look away, when she confronts him.

“Is it true?” she demands, willing herself not to shout, willing her voice to be calm, willing the tears not to fall.

He nods. He knows better than to touch her, or to try to speak words of comfort. She wants only answers from him at the moment, nothing else. He knows her this much at least.

“Our son? But why ours? Why not Oberyn’s? The crime was his, not yours. _He_ should be the one paying for it, not us.”

“Because I am the Prince of Dorne, and he is not.”

“And when were you going to tell me? The day you take my son away from me? Were you going to wait until then?”

She does not wait for his answer. She could not bear to be in his presence, fleeing his solar before he could call out her name.

*

 “Sister.”

“I am not your sister,” she spits out the words furiously between clenched teeth. _Take it back_ , she wants to scream. _Take it all back. Turn the clock back to when you were six-and-ten and take it all back. All of it!_

He advances towards her chair, going down on one knee, his hand making a motion to grasp hers. “Goodsister. Mellario, I -”

She slaps him, hard, leaving an imprint of her ring on his inflamed cheek. He does nothing to defend himself, does not even try to put any distance between them. She is the one who moves away, who stands abruptly and walks to the window, turning her back to him.

“Forgive me. If I had any inkling that my brother would be the one paying the price –“

“Not just your brother. Your brother’s son. Your brother’s wife. Was she worth it, Lord Yronwood’s paramour? Was she the best one you ever had? Tell me _that_ , at least,” she says, voice full of scorn.

“There is a way. There is a way to fix this. To ensure that you and Doran will not lose Quent to the Yronwoods.”

“Don’t say his name! Don’t say my baby’s name.”

“I can fix this. I can, please believe me. There is a way.”

She turns around to face him. “What way?”

He makes his way closer to her. His eyes are black pools of despair. “My way,” he says, oh-so-softly.

His way will bring war and bloodshed to Dorne, she has no doubt of that. His way will cause war with the Yronwoods.

Why should she care? She is not Dornish, merely a stranger to these lands. She would watch all of Dorne burn to save her son.

And when Dorne burns, what happens to the Prince of Dorne and his children? And all the other children?

 _It is the children who pay the price, when a prince calls the spears_ , Doran had said, the first time he took her to the Water Gardens.

Oberyn takes her hands, both her hands. “Say the word, goodsister. Say the word and I will fix this for you.”

_It is the children who pay the price._

She pushes him away. “No. You have done enough. More than enough.”


End file.
